Tricks Before the Gamemakers
by gethsemane342
Summary: CF spoilers! A 'what if' scenario about the people who would face the Gamemakers. Not intended to be taken seriously.


**Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games**

**A/n:** I am not attempting to imply that any of the following scenes actually happened in Catching Fire. This is merely a oneshot, based on the line 'There's a lot of kidding about it at lunch. What we might do. Sing, dance, strip, tell jokes.' (Pg. 281, UK version) as to what might have happened if the tributes had been serious. So, please, enjoy!

Tricks Before the Gamemakers

**I – Take a Nap: Mags**

"Who now?"

"Mags Kliman."

"Isn't she the eighty-year-old?"

I look up as the old woman hobbles in. She looks confused and I find myself wondering whether she'll be able to demonstrate any useful skill. I suppose I _did_ see her making those fishhooks. Maybe that's what she'll do.

She simply looks at us.

"In your own time," Plutarch says eventually because she doesn't seem to be doing anything.

She looks at him for a few more seconds. Then, she lies down.

OK ... and this is...?

"Miss Kilman?" Plutarch asks with some concern after a minute. Mags doesn't stir.

"Is she alive?" someone asks.

"Someone check on her."

Lorenzo, who is sitting to my left, obediently presses a button to disable the forcefield and walks over to her. We watch nervously as he checks her pulse and her breathing.

"Well?"

Lorenzo hesitates, looking confused. "She's, er ... asleep."

"Asleep?"

"Yes. Listen."

We listen. I hear slight snoring.

"Wake her up," Plutarch orders. Obligingly, Lorenzo gently shakes her and stops when her eyes open.

He holds out his hand to help her up. "You fell asleep, Miss Kilman," he says kindly. "Just show us your skill and then we'll have someone personally escort you to your room."

She speaks in a garbled voice. The only word I catch is 'did'. Lorenzo repeats his request. She looks stubborn and says something about a nap.

Finally, Plutarch sighs. "Very well. You may go, Miss Kilman."

She leaves. Plutarch looks at us.

"OK. Does anyone have any idea what score we're supposed to give _that_?"

**II – Dance: Man From District 5**

"Well, this one is bound to be more enthusiastic than _her_."

I watch as Morris Glass, victor of the 69th Games, stumbles in. He's one of the youngest victors but he's given over to drink, making him look older than he is. He smiles at us and points to Lorenzo.

"Could you tap the table please?" he slurs.

"Mr. Glass, _you_ are demonstrating a skill, not us," Plutarch says in a warning tone.

"I know but I can't, 'less he does it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

I hear a sigh. "Fine then."

Next to me, Lorenzo begins to tap the table. Morris Glass grins stupidly and then starts to tap his heels on the floor. He claps his hands and nods his head.

I have no idea what he's doing or how this is even relevant to anything.

The man starts to skip, flicking his hands out.

"He's _dancing_?" hisses Hestia in astonishment. Now that she's said it, I realise she's right. He is dancing (slightly drunkenly) in time to Lorenzo's tapping.

He attempts to finish with the splits but loses his balance. He giggles and then looks at us expectantly. For a moment, we are all lost for words. What just happened?

"Um ..." Plutarch recovers himself. "Yes, you can go, Mr. Glass."

The man bows and stumbles out of the room.

"Well," I say hesitantly, breaking the silence. "You were right, Plutarch."

"I was?"

"Yes," I nod. "He _was_ more enthusiastic. Drunk, but enthusiastic." Lorenzo starts to laugh but everyone else just looks annoyed. Plutarch glares at me.

"If you are not careful, I will personally see to it that part of the challenge for next year's Games is that the tribute who kills the Gamemaker who will be entering the arena (and mark my words, I will convince the President that this twist will make the Games great and I will get to pick the Gamemaker going in) gets enough food for as long as they are alive in the Games."

"So pick the dance you want to perform now," adds Lorenzo and we crack up.

Plutarch picks up a pen. "So, choices for Gamemaker nominee are Devanira Senarus and Lorenzo Balther."

Lorenzo looks at me gleefully. "Do you know any paired dances?"

Hestia groans. "Not only have the tributes gone mad, the Gamemakers are going mad too. I should not have woken up this morning."

The other Gamemakers nod their agreement.

**III – Strip: Blight (District Seven)**

The last three people have all made some sort of attempt at demonstrating a useable skill which means Plutarch has stopped looking murderous and Hestia doesn't seem to want to go back to bed again.

Blight Smith walks in confidently. I haven't seen him in training but I remember him as the victor of the Games twelve years ago. He seemed like a serious person then but by the way he is walking into the middle of the room, I have the feeling this has changed.

"I've been taught a bit about this," he says quietly. "Could someone please tap the tab-"

"I'm sorry, we cannot interfere with your demonstration," Plutarch says quickly, at the same time giving Lorenzo a look which says 'Do it and die'.

"Oh, OK. I'll just try to do it myself."

He begins to make odd noises and I realise he is making a beat. He kicks off his shoes and socks and begins to slide around the room.

What is with all the tributes and dancing anyway?

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hestia open her mouth, presumably to warn him about the dangers of dancing (he might end up being threatened with next year's Games along with Lorenzo and I if he continues) but she never says a word. I look back at Blight.

What. The. Hell?

Well, he's not dancing. He's pulling his shirt off and whirling it around his head. Then he covers himself with wrestling oil and swings his arms around.

"This is for you, ladies. I'm no Finnick Odair but..." He smiles and begins to tug at his pants. Beside me, I feel Lorenzo shaking with the strain of not laughing.

He is now clad solely in his boxer shorts. He attempts to throw his shirt to me and his pants to Minerva but the forcefield (the lovely, _lovely_ forcefield) stops them from reaching us. I have the feeling one of us should be stopping him but I can't quite put a voice to my thoughts. Was there something in the tributes' food?

He does a few more worrying moves which are making Hestia blush. Seeing this, Blight winks lustily at her before moving his hands towards his boxer shorts.

"Stop!" shouts Plutarch. He stands up. "_What_ are you doing, Mr. Smith?"

The man looks innocent. "Demonstrating my skill, sir."

"But you're _stripping_!"

"Well, I thought it could be useful. If I do it, then the others would be mesmerised and-"

"Alright, alright," Plutarch says hurriedly. "Thank you for the demonstration, Mr. Smith. Please clothe yourself and leave the room." He thinks for a moment. "In that order," he adds.

Blight shrugs and pulls his pants and shirt back on.

"Thank you for your consideration," he says calmly before leaving.

"I think he liked you, Hestia," Demetrius remarks.

"I think these tributes aren't treating this properly," she snaps and a few others murmur agreement.

"I need a drink. A stiff one," mutters Plutarch. "And eleven left." He groans. "Who's next?"

"Johanna Mason," I tell him.

"Hey, wasn't she always stripping in training?" asks Lorenzo.

Plutarch groans again and places his head in his hands.

**IV – Sing: Woman from District Nine**

Plutarch has refrained from having a stiff drink because none of the last four tributes (including, surprisingly, Johanna Mason) have done anything particularly unusual. However, I notice he grips his cup hard before each tribute, preparing himself for what the next one might do.

Holly Levito walks in. She's about fifty and isn't the most amazing physical specimen in the Games. She looks around for a moment before walking to the archery section. That confuses me. She's never shown the slightest interest in bows, not even in her own Games, thirty-three years ago.

She picks up a bow and considers it. Then she begins to flick the string. I give up being surprised.

Plutarch tries to reach for the wine. Hestia nudges him.

"Keep on hiking, up and down,

Always smile, never frown,

Those scary victors can't kill you,

Unless they give you something poisonous to chew".

There are six verses and a chorus, all proceeding in this manner. I think she wrote the words herself. Her flicking is out of time and she can't actually sing.

OK, I think I see the appeal in the wine now.

Finally, she finishes. I feel like grabbing the bow and whacking her over the head with it. I'm all for humour but that was _torture_. I know what score I'm giving her (although I don't think we're allowed to allocate minus one hundred to any tribute).

"Th-thank you, Mrs Levito," Plutarch says in a strangled voice.

"I could do an enc-"

"_NO!_ I mean, er, only one demonstration per tribute."

She looks a bit put out but places her bow back (and I shall never look at one in the same way again. I hope Katniss Everdeen doesn't plan on archery again or I won't be able to watch her) and thanks us.

As soon as she leaves, Plutarch drains his cup and reaches for some beer. Hestia grabs it so he reaches for the wine. Hestia grabs that too.

"I need that," he protests. "You can't expect me to sit through things like that sober."

"The tributes need you to be sober."

"But what if the next one recites a poem or writes a musical? I _need_ a drink."

"As do we all," Demetrius says dryly. "But we can't get drunk because we won't mark fairly."

"Tributes first, then drink," Hestia adds firmly.

He scowls. "Look, I'm Head Gamemaker. That means I'm in charge. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"Yes," I say cheerfully. "It means you have to be more sober than the rest of us."

He scowls again and thumps his cup on the table. "Fine. But one more musical act and I'm resigning."

**V – Tell Jokes: Man From District Ten**

Anton Bush is our next tribute. He grins broadly at us and a familiar feeling of dread courses through me. He looks at the weapons. Then at us.

"Could I have some wine?" he says cheerfully – this man is renowned for his happiness. "I think I see things too clearly when I'm sober."

"Please demonstrate your skill," Plutarch growls. I wonder whether Anton somehow heard our discussion after the last tribute and is doing this to needle us.

"All right. You have it. You might see double of me and that can only be good!"

Oh, brother.

He walks over to knot tying, picks up a rope and ties a knot in it. At least he's going to demonstrate a skill, even if he _is_ determined to get on our bad sides.

For some reason, he grabs a sharp point and strains the knot .He picks up a second rope and holds the two together.

"A rope says, 'hey, are you another rope?" He mimes the second rope talking to the knot. "And the second one says 'nope, I'm a frayed knot." He grins and throws the ropes in the air. "Not a good one, I know. But I'll get better."

"Please show us your skill, Mr. Bush."

Anton smirks and walks to the edible insect section. Despite myself, I find myself admiring him. He certainly has an attitude.

Also, he isn't singing or dancing, which makes him twelve material in my book.

He picks up a poisonous bug. "I always thought it's weird how we eat insects but in the arena, insects can eat you. Hey, that reminds me. Two cows in a field. One says, 'Moo'. The other says, 'Damn you, I was going to say that!'" He pauses. "Oh, another one. My wife said this one's funnier. Two muffins in an oven. One says 'Wow, it's hot in here'. The other says 'Aah, a talking muffin.'"

Hestia rubs her forehead wearily. "Your skill?"

He grins his toothy grin again and wanders over to the knives. Picking one up, he holds it close to this throat. Alarmed, we all jump up but it's useless: we can't get to him if he kills himself.

He bursts out laughing.

"I hear they used to say, heck, fourteen hundred lemmings can't be wrong. You disagree?"

"Mr. Bush, will you please get to the point?"

Plutarch should not have said that. I can already tell what Anton will say and I'm not disappointed.

He turns the tip of the knife to his chest. "But I'm already here!"

Plutarch stands up. "Mr. Bush, are you going to demonstrate a skill or not?"

"I am. Don't you like my jokes?" We all stare at him. I'm stunned that he thinks anyone could like those jokes. I think the others just want to strangle him. He shrugs. "Hey, I did you a favour. Chaff from District 11 wanted to tell some jokes but his aren't suitable for female company so I did it instead."

"Thank you," Plutarch says in a restrained voice. "You may go."

"But I went before I came here."

"_Leave_, please."

He grins again and leaves. As soon as he's gone, Plutarch gets up, walks to Hestia and grabs the beer. He takes a long, deep drink and pours some in his cup. Hestia grabs it and does the same.

"I'm resigning," my oh-so-happy boss mutters.

"It wasn't a musical act," I point out.

He glares at me. "It was worse. And if I want to resign, I'll resign." He takes a gulp from his cup. "Who's next and have they lost their mind?"

"Lima Tenferris. And I don't know."

"If she makes any sort of musical, joking or sleeping moves, I'll give her a zero."

"I thought it started at one?"

"I don't care."

"I'm enjoying myself," Lorenzo comments. I laugh. Eighteen Gamemakers glare at him. He gulps. "Er ... I mean, let's start awarding negative numbers."

Damn it, we've already worked out a provisional score for Holly Levito.

As the others fall to working out possible scores for Anton (one, three or four seems to be the consensus) Lorenzo nudges me.

"Hey," he whispers. "Ten bucks says we can get Plutarch crying by the end of this."

I look at the man in question and can't help laughing.

"Deal."

_Fin_


End file.
